VIII
As they left the arcaded streets of commercial Algiers, and drove up the
long hill towards Mustapha Superieur, where most of the best and finest
houses are, Stephen and Nevill Caird talked of what they saw, and of
Victoria Ray; not at all of Stephen himself. Nevill had asked him what
sort of trip he had had, and not another question of any sort. Stephen
was glad of this, and understood very well that it was not because his
friend was indifferent. Had he been so, he would not have invited
Stephen to make this visit.
To speak of the past they had shared, long ago, would naturally have led
farther, and though Stephen was not sure that he mightn't some day
refer, of his own accord, to the distasteful subject of the Case and
Margot Lorenzi, he could not have borne to mention either now.
As they passed gateways leading to handsome houses, mostly in the Arab
style, Nevill told him who lived in each one: French, English, and
American families; people connected with the government, who remained in
Algiers all the year round, or foreigners who came out every winter for
love of their beautiful villa gardens and the climate.
"We've rather an amusing society here," he said. "And we'd defend
Algiers and each other to any outsider, though our greatest pleasure is
quarrelling among ourselves, or patching up one another's rows and
beginning again on our own account. It's great fun and keeps us from
stagnating.
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